I thought being a jockey was going to be a walk in the park. At 19, it wasn't so easy. I weighed 108 pounds and struggled every day to make weight for my races. I finally left home and came to the US.
June 5th 1938
I brought my horse onto the track through the fog, I couldn't see 10 feet in front of me. I pleaded with my boss to wait till later when the fog cleared but I had 7 horses to get on and Santa Anita has hours like a small town barber shop. Closes at 11:00 AM before races get underway.
My first ride was a poor excuse of a horse named Bigcheckstocash. I'll be damned if that old nag will pick up 10 dollars in his life. My boss told me to get the stick on him as many times as I could but I didn't. Beating the living hell out of him wasn't going to make things better. Just because a horse has the word "Thoroughbred" written on his papers doesn't make him a racehorse. He could be a carthorse, or a lead pony, and if he couldn't even do that, he's just plain nice to look at.
I got on the other 6 without any issues. Big race tomorrow. Shit.
